I'm Not Crazy, I Only Look that Way
by darksideofnight
Summary: Alfred had always had an affinity for the stars. They were ever present, never judging, and not at all like the people on Earth. In a funny way, they were very nice to him.


A/N: well, this happened. I was bored, and then this little thing came from that. Hope you like it, and please review.

Alfred had always had an affinity for the stars. Perhaps it was because of his lonely upbringing. He wasn't really sure, himself.

During his isolationist days, there'd been nowhere to look _except _up. Back then, the skies had been full of stars, no matter where you were. The stars were infinitely older than him, and always watching. Sometimes, he fancied that they were the older brothers and sisters who didn't resent him. The ones who never hated him or turned on him. Even when he turned on himself, the stars were always there with him.

Later, the industrial age had begun. He was desperate for the stars. Wouldn't everyone else abandon him? To his horror, he found that the higher he went, the higher he built his buildings and the farther he advanced his technology, the fewer stars there were. There had to be some point where the stars were attainable, right? They didn't just get farther and farther away, he was certain of it. He had no reason to be so certain, but with nothing else to put faith in, he sought to find something he could be sure of. And then he had become a superpower. Looking down, all he received were insults and resentment. If he looked up to the sky, all he saw were the heavens he'd always imagined, and they were the only escape from a constant barrage of old anger from people who didn't really care about what happened to their companions. They cared only for themselves, and it sickened him to realize that he was just the same. Arthur was bitter because the upstart colony had risen to such great levels of power, higher than him, even. He may not say it, but Alfred knew. Everyone had old grudges, old scores to settle. It was suffocating. He understood this. It was then that the stars became a painting of what he wanted the world to be. A tapestry depicting people who weren't entrapped by the past, people who escaped the history books and never had to care about anything, not even themselves. What a beautiful painting it was, he thought.

The universe was a big place. He and Ivan learned this, that the farther they went, the farther there was to go. But the more he saw, the more he realized was out there, even beyond the stars, everything felt much smaller. Suddenly, the people who made fun of him didn't seem so dominating. It didn't seem to matter that everyone thought he was fat, stupid, and useless. It didn't even matter if he thought that, because there were people who didn't know him, and didn't care to judge him. He wanted to know a place like that. A place where no one knew his name, and didn't care to ask. No one knew anyone's name, and they were all at least polite to each other. Perhaps he and Ivan could even get along in such a place, a land where you loved because of feelings, not because of circumstance. The moon wasn't nearly far enough, he knew. It must be somewhere out of this world. They would say: _Oh, you're finally here! Well, I'm not certain of much, but I am certain that you are quite welcome to stay as long as you please! _And he would softly smile, before replying:_This sounds like exactly where I want to be! _The first speaker would smile, and someone next to him would wave a warning finger: _I must warn you though, we're all mad, here. It's as if there never was sanity to begin with! _He would nod excitedly, and they would all be rejects together. It sounded like a wonderful place to be.

One day, his Hollywood smile would slip away, and no one would be around to make fun of him. It hurt far too much to care about what happened. It was much less painful to let go and live among the twinkling lights in the sky. Caring was very much overrated; he had grown weary of it.

_What was your home like? I think that that is what they are called…_

_I'm not quite sure that I remember. It was a bad place, of that I am certain. Forgive me if I do not care to recall quite what happened. It would be terribly difficult, at any rate; I can't even remember what my name used to be! _They would all laugh, then. And then, perhaps he would meet the others again.

_What have you been doing all this time?_

_Well, I'm not really sure what I was doing. Ah, well, though. I'm sure I'll remember eventually. Are you going to accompany me?_

_Why would I do that? Go by yourself, at least then we won't have to deal with you._

_You're really very funny! I wish I could remember who you are! Well, farewell, you must tell me if we meet again, for I'm certain that I shan't remember this meeting we've had!_

No more memory and no more hurt. He giggled slightly at the idea, the sound not dampened by the strait jacket he wasn't sure he was wearing. What a funny thing! It was so far away and hard to imagine, at all. He twisted the pen he was holding, and stared at the person in front of him with unfocused eyes.

"Who are you? Have we met?" The stranger looked pained for a moment, and Alfred looked down to make sure he hadn't accidentally stabbed him with the pen. He was told that he did that quite frequently, as of late.

"Please…don't you remember me?" He laughed at the strange person's question. Not the loud, shrill sound it generally was, but a dark, demented sound which conveyed only apathy and the sound of someone who had been pushed too far.

"Maybe if I tried very hard, I would remember. But, it's too bad, because I don't think I really want too. If it's any consolation, you look very fascinating." He turned away again, doodling illegible letters on a scrap of paper. Footsteps were heard as the stranger walked out the door. What a curious being. So hurt, and yet so angry. He had seen the anger there, just beneath the surface.

"I think his name was England." He looked up and around the room, no one was there. Who had said it, then? How odd...

"I don't care who he was. Either way I don't care to remember him." He went back to his doodling, which was the stretched out equivalent of several different shapes, none of which significant. The only perceivable shape on the white sheet was the large, sloppily drawn star in the middle of the paper. How strange, he thought, that he should draw something he missed so very dearly.

A/N: this sort of changes pace in the middle. Whatever, fuck it. Thanks for reading, concrit is welcome.


End file.
